Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 10
She is just beginning to feel the chill setting in as she fills her belly when the sound of an approaching horse and a greeting interrupts her grazing. The Arabian lifts her head to view the speaker as he stops near her and is peeved to see a breeder with a coat the same color as her own. He babbles at her and she resists the urge to kick him to shut him up. What is it about the stallions on these Isles that makes them think it is acceptable to speak so casually to a mare? The single useful sentence he speaks comes at the very end of his string of words and informs her that she is in a land called the Inlet.
Before she can respond to the stallion, or ignore him more thoroughly, a tall, thick, blue mare approaches them before coming to a sudden stop and expands the circle to three. Iftikhar turns to face the female and observes the hard look in her eyes. The blue roan speaks concisely and with authority and Iftikhar, who is more inclined to converse with a mare than a with a stallion, is about to answer her when they are joined by a third horse. He is laughably small, almost a full hand shorter than the smallest Arabian in the desert. The breeder is also a slow speaker, trailing off often as if he does not remember what he plans to say next.
A smirk curls the corner of her mouth until he states that he owns the Inlet. Iftikhar’s ears turn back and her eyes shift to the blue mare. A breeder leading a herd? These Isles must think along the same lines as the Akhal-Tekes, where stallions hold as much power as the mares do. No wonder the chestnut stallion was so informal toward her, and no wonder the flashy roan palomino from the Crossing had spoken with such confidence. The very idea of a breeder holding authority over any mare, much less a whole herd of them, is disgusting, and yet it seems as if stallions serve some purpose on the islands beyond siring children at the behest of the mares.
Iftikhar’s ears tip further backwards. She lifts her chin to stare down her dished nose at her company but still has to look up at the blue roan as she responds to the mare and, inadvertently, to Dogun. “I swam to the wrong island,” she says. Her ears come forward and she glances at the chestnut male, then at the smaller stallion as if to include them as she continues, “I am looking for the island that hosts the deserts.” The Arabian flicks her still-damp tail and waits for one of the three horses to tell her where it is, but her gaze lingers expectantly on the mare.
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